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A Test Story
It was so cold that every one of his breaths made a frozen cloud in the air, but still his forehead looked so damp, and his eyes, so big. What if he really was tired? What if he could no longer hold on to me? Something moist dropped on my hair but it wasn't a snowflake.
I hate men who sweat, I thought. “Don't scream,” I whispered back. Didn't he know that his loud voice could've caused an avalanche? But, people don't have any control over the way they panic; the same way they can't stop their sweats.
I couldn't remember whose idea it was to hike in this remote place, in March. Walking with a man I didn't really know. Didn't Dad always tell me to give people a chance? Any stranger could be the man of your life, he always said.
I hate you Dad, I thought, and hated my whole life, solely depending on this particular stranger.
Just a few hours ago, we were talking so calmly about the African rituals of death and my only worry was about his bizarre accent, until the ground under our feet opened up and a black hole, looking like an endless glacier crevice, swallowed both of us. Then, I couldn't think about anything other than that void, while I was rolling and turning, trying to grab to anything I could find. Thank God, at least I found his fingers, right before he got stuck, and me too.
Was I bleeding? I didn't care. Tucked in ice and fresh slushy snow, my lone thought was about dying without ever knowing true love.
“Don't move,” he shouted again. “It hurts my arm.”
Editor: You are a talented writer. If this is the test, we look forward to the real. Blessings.
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